


Accustomization

by Archadian_Skies



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blind Character, Blindness, F/M, Female Pronouns for Grell Sutcliff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-03 21:50:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17292068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Archadian_Skies/pseuds/Archadian_Skies
Summary: She’s fast but the demon is faster, and though she’s pushing her body past its comfortable limits, the demon is frustratingly out of reach.She’s almost there but the demon already is, and it’s with a foul swipe of its black claws that sends William tumbling off his feet and thudding onto the cobblestones below.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Compilation of old tumblr prompts

She’s fast but the demon is faster, and though she’s pushing her body past its comfortable limits, the demon is frustratingly out of reach.

She’s almost there but the demon already is, and it’s with a foul swipe of its black claws that sends William tumbling off his feet and thudding onto the cobblestones below.

She screams but the demon screams louder, and she swings madly until it’s reduced to eviscerated ribbons of red and she hasn’t the time to admire their colour nor the wet sound they make as gravity claims them and London’s rain is awash with red, no no no she’s skidding down roof tiles and leaping into the alley below and William’s a smudge of black and red, too much red.

“Oh fuck, oh FUCK!” She curses, and she’s not easily frightened but she’s never been this frightened all her life as she cradles him in her arms and tries to shake him awake. “William! William wake up!”

He groans in pain, and she’s already counting one broken arm and two broken legs and fractured ribs and there’s red, red red red all over his face and there are deep gouges where his eyes should be but aren’t.

“William!” She cries, and he’s trying to blink, instinctively pawing around for his glasses.

“Where are my glasses Grell? I cannot see a damn thing.”

She can’t reply, can’t tell him he won’t see a damn thing ever again, and her heart is pounding painfully in her chest as she wraps her arms around him.

“Grell I-” he chokes, coughing up red, and she wipes it away just as quickly, “Grell I cannot see.”

“I know, I know love.” Is she crying? The rain’s falling far too heavily for her to tell. 

“Grell I cannot see.” William’s breathing rises into a panic and he turns his head this way and that, and the rain runs red with his blood and Grell wants it to stop, wants it all to go away like a bad dream.

“Grell-”

“I’ve got you, I’m right here.” She crushes him close, and she can feel him clench the fabric of her jacket tightly in his uninjured hand. “I’ve got you.”


	2. Chapter 2

They inform him it will ‘take some getting used to’  but refrain from giving him a projected period of time. They inform him it will ‘cause some setbacks’ but refrain from defining them.

He knows they are dancing along the merry line bureaucracy draws in the sand and fortifies with paper, and it has become so ingrained in him that he does not protest.

 

The Board won’t let him step down, which allayed his greatest fear, and in their black humour shared amongst the Reaper kin they reasoned that should he be stood down, who would want such a job, let alone be qualified for it?

The only Reaper capable of such leadership died messily at the hands of his lover, and had Eric Slingby not accidentally carved him open, he would have succumbed to the Thorn anyway.

No, Director William T. Spears shall stay on, shall lead on, as he has since the second world war and as he shall for perhaps several more to come.

One Demonic mishap will not change that, certainly not. The Board expect him to meet these new challenges and overcome them. He will not allow himself to fall prey to petty emotions such as self-pity and shame, thereby neglecting his duties. If there is one thing Director William T. Spears detests above all else, it is inefficiency.

He has a new language to learn, one of fingertips and bumps rather than pen and ink. He has a new routine to follow, one that will ‘take some getting used to’. He will grow accustomed to these changes, and perform exactly as his position demands. He will not be inefficient. He will  _not._

After a week, the medical team carefully unwind the bandage wrapped around his head, and gently peel away the gauze taped over his eyes.

‘It will take some getting used to,’ they say, ‘but they have healed well.’

He nods, and when they place the pen in his hand, his hand still knows the motions of his signature well enough to remain unguided.

William had taken the soul out from the Demon’s grasp.

The Demon had taken his eyes with a foul swipe of its claws.

Yes, it will take some getting used to.

“Such a lovely colour,” a familiar voice croons, and there’s a slow line drawn beneath his chin as a finger is curled, “these new scars you wear.”

Red, the team had told him, his eyes were scarred red and tarnished gold. He wonders if he will be able to remember what such colours look like in years to come. He wonders if he will be able to remember what anything looks like, or if it will all fade into the enveloping darkness all around him.

“One step at a time, darling.” One hand is holding his, the other resting gently on his arm as she leads him out of the ward. He does not know if she means the act of walking, or the path his life must now tread.

“Did you know the old coots inquired if I would be ‘liaising with you’ during the Division’s stewardship?” She’s chatty and gossipy as she leads him to the car, and he knows she would gesture wildly if she were not holding onto him. “Honestly, the nerve of those old badgers. As if I would be your carrier pigeon ferrying messages to and fro! I’ll have my hands full with overtime and whatnot.”

‘Whatnot’ probably meant ‘taking care of you’, though she is too polite to say as such. Too polite, or perhaps she didn’t see it as burdensome a chore as he imagines.

He reasons can see her without  _seeing_  her; the bobbing of her ponytail as she walks makes a swishing sound as her hair brushes her signature red jacket, the spicy perfume dotted on her pulse-points emanate a heavy, seductive ‘red’ scent. The red of her warmth, the red of her anger, the red of her passion; she is untameable, inimitable red and still she chooses him, dull and colourless, over all else.

Ever since he began acknowledging his deeply buried emotions for her, he instilled a new chapter in his life and found himself drowning in red as she bled into his orderly world and rearranged it to fit her too. His house began to bloom with reds against the orderly whites, and it was all he could see and all he can still see, somehow.

He sees the red in the thunderous music that fills their house as she races her fingers up and down the ivory keys. He can no longer see but he’s not entirely without sight, he discovers, as she pauses her playing to sit him beside her. Music is the child of precision and passion, and had it a colour it would be as red as her.

She plays Rachmaninoff and he plays Chopin; she favours the fervour and the fever, and he favours the neatness and the nimble. The pieces don’t quite fit, and the notes clash until they settle for a melody that dances and dips and dashes along the spectrum of sound.

Red is the heat of her kiss, of her embrace, of her lips on his scarred face and his throat and his collarbone as she pries him out of his clothing. He still knows the way to their bedroom, will never not know the way to their bedroom, and it’s red he sees and hears and feels as they tangle in the sheets in sweat and sex.

Once sated, the fire ebbs away into embers as he traces her outline with his hands, learning it in this new tactile language as her breathing settles and her heart has ceased pounding and returned to its sprightly beat. When he kisses her he sees red, and he realises he won’t drown in darkness so long as she is in his life.

It will take some getting used to, yes, but he is no stranger to starting anew.


	3. Chapter 3

A year was by no means long for a Reaper, and the twelve month stewardship of the Division passed unremarkably, much to his relief.

Any doubts he had about losing the respect of his subordinates were easily quelled by the end of his first day back on the job, from what he could glean from their hushed, fearful tones.

“They were already frightened of you  _before_  the incident, love,” Grell quipped as she preened his tie, “now you’re even more fearsome with those scars of yours.”

During his recovery he had studied the Division’s (converted) floorplans extensively, calculating the number of steps needed to take him from point A to point B so that he wouldn’t seem a blundering fool. He’d taken to using a gentleman’s cane, having commissioned one of fine lacquered mahogany with a simple engraved silver handle; coupled with the measured steps, the cane helped him adjust to the placement of objects around him.

That and the tapping it made against floorboards and marble tiles warned everyone the Director neared, and they visibly (so Ronald commented) straightened in posture whenever he passed.

Still, it was not as smooth a transition as he had hoped and he still found himself struggling with making his way from his main office to Archives or General Administration. Not wanting to burden his already busy assistant, William found himself at a loss as to how to go about moving efficiently without a guide.

Grell and Ronald had already foreseen such things, much to his surprise, and had implemented a plan a while ago; nine weeks, to be exact.

“This is not the way to the breakroom used by administrative staff.” William stopped walking so abruptly it took Ronald three paces to turn and notice.

“How do you even know that?” Ronald asked curiously.

“Because I am supposed to turn left here and continue for thirty steps,” He replied matter of factly “but you made no move to do so.”

Ronald allowed himself a moment of open mouthed disbelief before sighing.

“I didn’t believe Cap’n when she told me, but I guess she wasn’t spinnin’ tall tales after all.” He rested his hand on William’s elbow gently before guiding him forward. “C’mon, we’ve got a surprise for you.”

With no sight to inspect Ronald’s expression, William could only guess his cheery tone meant the surprise was not as mischievous as past surprises had been.

He was at least seventy paces out of his depth, and after three turns and one doorway, William had no clue as to where Ronald was leading him until he felt the chilly breeze hit his face and the cold snap of impending Autumn fill his lungs.

“Stay! Stay!” Grell’s voice commanded, and he paused mid-step. “No no, not  _you,_  William!” She laughed brightly, and his brows creased in confusion.

“This is our surprise.” Ronald declared as he placed something in William’s grasp. It felt like a leather belt with a loop, and soon Grell’s fingers gently corrected the item until it circled his hand snugly.

There was a skittering of  _something_  against concrete and  _panting_  and a soft  _bark_.

“This is Wagner, your guidedog in training!” Grell announced, and William felt something small and warm wind around his legs before two paws were braced against his knee and a very wet nose was pressed against his hand.

“He’s only nine weeks old and has a lot of training ahead of him but we’ve been taking it in turns teaching him his way around the Division.” Ronald’s pride was evident in his voice, and he could picture him with his chest puffed.

“Wagner.” William tried the name out. “Like the composer.”

“The only one we agree on.” Grell reminded him, and she guided his arms into a cradle before depositing the puppy into his hold. “He’s a Doberman familiar. We thought Labradors weren’t as imposing and wouldn’t suit your handsomely cold image, even if they did come in black.”

“Yeah when Waggy grows up, he’ll look like a regal attack dog.” Ronald chuckled as the pup licked William’s chin before nosing against him fondly. “But for now he’s just a little lad with paws too big for his body.”

“He responds to both English and German.” Grell informed, leaning to press a kiss to the pup. “And you only need take the right hallway before he can lead you to where you want to go.”

“Now, we better get goin’.” Ronald clapped his shoulder amiably. “Cap’n and I have collections lined up and we’re both allergic to overtime.”

“But-”

“We’ll leave you in good hands.” Grell kissed his cheek. “Well.  _Paws_.”

* * *

 

It was hard to appear imposing when being led by an overly curious puppy. Wagner strained against his leash, at times jerking William forward hard enough for him to stumble due to being caught unaware.

“Wagner!  _Fuß_!  _Platz_!” He demanded, and felt the lead slacken. After a moment he felt incredibly foolish, and sighed tiredly. “I do not even know if you are sitting.” The pup whined in reply, and William dug in his pocket for the small bag of treats Grell had left with him.

Crouching, he offered one in his palm and waited until he felt the pup’s warm wet nose curiously sniff around. Carefully he ran his fingers across Wagner’s face, tracing the long snout Doberman dogs were known for, and pinching the bandages wrapped around his cropped ears. His fingers drew an image for him, writing in the new language he’d taken great pains to adapt to. Wagner licked his fingers, gnawing on them playfully to elicit a chuckle from the usually stoic Reaper.

“You will be my eyes from now on, alright?” He straightened from his crouch and clicked his tongue. “ _Voraus_.”

Wagner barked in reply, before bounding forward and skittering down the long hallways back to William’s office.

* * *

 

He didn’t do too well with surprises, Grell had learnt across the long span of time they’d been together, but he  _was_  a master of adaptation. She crept as quietly as she could back to his office, his assistant Ms. Petherbridge giving her an encouraging smile.

Adopting a familiar for him and training the pup to become his guidedog began as a drunken idea hatched between Ronald and her one night after a long shift. The idea still seemed viable the next morning as they sobered up, but convincing the canine department they needed a familiar that  _wouldn’t_  become an attack dog had been particularly difficult.

An attack dog  _and_  a guidedog became the compromise, and a Doberman pup was chosen out of the lolloping litter.

“Darling?” She poked her head into his office and found it bare. Proceeding into the adjoining suite, Grell had to stifle herself lest she disturb their slumber with her laughter.

William was stretched out on the couch fast asleep, and his vicious attack-dog-and-guidedog-to-be sat ever watchful from his perch on William’s chest. The Reaper had a hand resting on Wagner’s back fondly, and for the first time in a long while his brows weren’t creased with the anxiety he had worn since the attack.

“Well well, my darling boys.” Grell crooned, mussing between Wagner’s ears before dotting a kiss on William’s brow. “It seems you’ll get along just fine.”


End file.
